Monthly Archives: September 2015

Coarse grains of dust and sand swirled along the length of the colonnaded boulevard, picked up and driven ahead of the hot, dry wind that swept in from the hungry deserts. Atop the tall and elegant columns perched the imperious marble forms of emperors and generals long since dead. Their blank faces, worn and weathered, looked down over a silent city, home only to the dust and sand and winds, and the ghosts of the past.

Alsharak Abban, despite the words and fears of Athradies, had not proven as hard to track down as first expected, for he did not hide himself as he felt he had nothing to fear. That had proved a fatal miscalculation, for the Red Blade had snatched his life as well. Nor had he been the last to taste the touch of the Red Blade, for others followed, men of the various city-states of the Swordlands, or from far off lands beyond; Akuvians, Cahdians and Ishmarites, Metsheputi, Hashalites and Navodians, and more besides. And each time he took one of them, the pull of the sword grew stronger, more assured in its purpose, and yet the victims harder to find, their guards and wards more fiendish to evade, and their lives harder to take.

Carse let himself into the small place he had acquired, a building that was little more than a single roomed shack, set back from the river a way, in a part of the city where those who struggled to survive lived, yet had not succumbed to crushing poverty. The finery of his clothes would have stood out there like a gold coin in a beggar hand, and so he had wrapped himself in a voluminous cloak to disguise it, one old and worn, the hood of which was pulled over his head. To further mask his presence, to not appear as anything out of the ordinary, he had affected a slumped back and a limping gait.

Carse had taken a seat in the corner of a small tavern, nursing a glass of red wine. He appeared to any that looked his way as if he was in deep contemplation of it, holding the glass up before him and staring at it with a rather vacant expression. In truth he surreptitiously listened in on conversations that swirled around him, for word of the slaying of Hatumses had seeped out, as had the manner in which the deed had occurred. With it came the whispered rumours and the wild theories, all of which saw it spread.

Deep shadows closed in around Carse. Clad head to toe in the darkest black, from the soft soled boots on his feet to the scarf wrapped about his head, he fused in with the night, all but unseen. Not alone did his outfit aid him in this. The storms of the day had abated, though not yet had the clouds departed, and they shrouded the stars and the moon so a deep stygian gloom clung to the city, seeping into all its corners and nooks. Torch light and lamp light, seeping out from behind shuttered windows, provided the scant illumination that Carse used to navigate his way through streets all but deserted. On the infrequent occasion that he perceived another, either seen or heard, he sunk into the shadows and wrapped himself in them. Holding as still as a statue, with nary a breath passing his lips, he disappeared from view, remaining so until they had passed on their way. Well used were the skills Prador had taught him that night, for he put them to good effect as unseen he closed upon his quarry.

Beneath Athradies’ villa there existed an old, dusty vault, a room in which Carse had never before set foot, nor even knew the existence of. Flimsy webs were strung out between walls and a row of marble columns, worn with age. The bronze glow of an arcane light that Carse had summoned up flickered across ancient tapestries and banners that hung from the walls and ceiling, all faded and frayed by the passage of years. Down between the columns, the floor had been worn by the tread of many feet so that a grove had been worn into it. Across the floor, a thick coating of dust lay, undisturbed by any until Athradies took Carse down there. The ceiling of the vault bore a painted mural, though age had not been kind to it, for the paint had cracked and peeled, with large sections missing, yet still Carse could make out much of what it had been of. Beneath a starry sky, a man strode, sword in hand, though most of the sword belonged to a section that was missing, while all around him fell creatures of dark and flame, and men of disfigured form.